


We Are Who We Are

by Sam96



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Parentlock, Pining John, Post TFP, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam96/pseuds/Sam96
Summary: They still don’t talk as they learn to steer their way through much shallower water.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a place for everyone who wasn't happy with "The Final Problem" and Series 4 in general, so here comes my clumsy attempt at trying to fix that mess.  
> A warm hug goes to my wonderful beta readers, TypicalSherlockFan and OkayHolmesandWatson !

Surrounded by debris, they find themselves in the middle of 221B like soldiers; the last men standing on a deserted battlefield, the last to survive. Ashes and dirt, burnt books, melted wallpaper, the yellow smiley face only a faded ghost from the past.

It’s difficult to guess what is going on in Sherlock’s mind, as the pale blue eyes take in the destruction of what they once called a home, a hole blown right through their joint existence. John’s gaze follows him as the detective wanders through the ruins like a lost child, looking for a treasure somewhere in the depths of a forgotten ocean.

They don’t talk because there’s nothing left to say.

Silence has become their last refuge, similar to a room isolated from the cold face of reality, their shelter.

 

 

“You can stay with us if you want. Rosie and me, that is. After everything that’s happened, maybe…”

“It’s fine.”

That starless night at Musgrave Hall, Sherlock hadn’t accepted his offer and John had thought that he knew the reason why.

Now that he’s watching his best friend as he wanders through the broken pieces of his past, he doubts he’ll ever understand.

“Falling is just like flying,” Sherlock had murmured when they’d been sitting in the back of a police car, John wrapped in a warm blanket, still shivering from the water and the shock, Sherlock wrapped up in his own thoughts, “except there’s a more permanent destination. And I still failed to catch her.”

He’d known that this was somehow about Eurus, about self-loathing and regret, about a life never fully lived, but he didn’t dare to ask.

It was neither his right, nor his place.

 

 

Sherlock picks up the Bison skull and John sees a faint smile brighten the darkness on his friend’s features. Of all the things the explosion has destroyed, of course, this ugly thing survived without as much as a scratch. On Sherlock’s pale forearms he can still see the faint marks of his substance abuse, the self-inflicted pain grown out of guilt, and he quickly turns his gaze away.

Shame is a difficult thing to outrun.

John spots the headphones next to the fireplace and Sherlock offers him the skull like an unspoken compliment. The ice-blue eyes carefully avoid his gaze as they fit the pieces back together, the jigsaw puzzle that their lives have turned into.

This feels more intimate than any hug they’ve ever shared.

Sherlock turns his chair over, places it in front of the fireplace where it belongs. A lonely island in the middle of destruction, a fixed point in a changing age. He makes no move to return John’s chair to its rightful place, maybe because he knows the implication of such an innocent act.

Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, a silent _You’re here, we’re alive, we made it through._

Behind John, the kettle boils in the kitchen.

 

 

Everything beneath his fingertips seems fragile enough to fall apart at the faintest of brushes.

The cups, or at least those which aren't shattered on the floor in thousands of porcelain pieces, are covered with dust and ashes, painted in black streaks under clear water. Their tea tastes of smoke and a dark past, but neither of them comments on it. There’s something appropriate about the ruins surrounding them.

In fact, Sherlock deliberately ignores his cup in favour of inspecting his violin. John has no idea when the Stradivarius first made an appearance, but he’s certain that this is one of those secrets that are meant for the East wind alone.

He borrows a broom from Mrs Hudson and sweeps their grief away while Sherlock fills the flat with the mourning sound of the violin. For once, John doesn’t complain about his friend’s unwillingness to help him clean. He listens to the long, drawn-out notes reverberating in the quiet flat and remembers a time when he danced with Mary through happier days.

All gone, dead, lost.

 

 

*

 

 

He doesn’t ask where Sherlock is sleeping because he doesn’t want to invade the state of calmness they spent far too long wishing for, for less wind to rustle through the leaves of their existence. But when he’s standing in front of the broken mirror in Sherlock’s bathroom, he can see the burnt bed and the destroyed wardrobe through the door. The glass must have cracked due to the explosion induced heat, only the blackened wooden frame survived.

He doesn’t worry about Sherlock, but he does wonder.

Maybe there’s a sofa in Mrs Hudson’s flat, a guest room in Mycroft’s townhouse, a lilo in the room upstairs.

He doesn’t worry about Sherlock, but he does care.

Mrs Hudson had been kind enough to let him and Rosie stay in the guest room in 221A and John still wonders if he deserves the amount of hospitality he receives. It feels like he's invading a life he has no right to return to, like he has woken a forgotten version of himself, staring it right in face, unable to recognize the one person he should know best.

John Watson has changed.

But it's Sherlock Holmes who has transformed him.

“The decorators will be here tomorrow,” Sherlock informs him from the kitchen and John catches himself smiling at his own reflection. It’s Sherlock’s flat now, has been for a while, but it somehow starts to feel more and more like home again, something they rebuild together, _make_ together.

They both chose the wallpaper – “Don’t be absurd, John, I’d never be able to go to my mind palace with that _disgrace_ on my wall” – they ordered the furniture online – “John, what do you mean they’re not selling that coffee table anymore?” – they even managed to find all of Sherlock’s old book collections – “You read _Eragon_?” – “Shut up, John.”

He doesn’t count the seconds in his head, but he estimates that it must have been five minutes, which he spends staring at Sherlock’s lonely toothbrush next to the basin, wondering why it’s so easy to picture his, and soon a smaller one, next to it. Like a little family.

When he looks into the mirror again, the frown on his forehead has returned.

 

 

It takes the decorators three days to restore the entire flat. Three days that Sherlock spends in his armchair, staring at his phone, probably texting Lestrade about a case he solved without leaving the flat even once. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even acknowledge anyone’s presence and they’re back to a peaceful coexistence of unspoken truths.

Rosie sleeps through the days at Mrs Hudson’s flat, occasionally disturbing the silence of 221 with her crying upon waking up alone in an unfamiliar place. Every time John is there to calm her down, while he fights back the tears behind closed eyelids. His back is turned to Mrs Hudson, who always regards him with a knowing gaze when he slowly makes his way back upstairs as if she knew something he doesn't.

It’s hard, doing this alone.

It’s harder, wishing for an embrace that will never come back for them.

 

 

On the third day, Sherlock hands him the Michigan hardcore propellant spray paint in exchange for the revolver.  It’s a fair trade and they don’t even wait for the decorators to finish because it’s much more difficult to stand the sound of a bullet in an empty flat with the solitude presence of a life half-lived.

Three smiles, two bullets, one moment of undisclosed happiness.

Downstairs, Rosie wakes with a startled cry.

 

 

*

 

 

They still don’t talk as they learn to steer their way through much shallower water.

Mycroft pays them a visit the day after the furniture arrives, but he carefully avoids sitting down. He’s still a bit pale, the shadows beneath his eyes a tad too blue, but he insists that everything is fine and nobody shows any interest in dragging out demons that are now fading scars underneath layers of skin. It’s the status quo, after all.

Stagnation is good.

It’s all good.

Sherlock offers him tea and Mycroft accepts with the ghost of a smile, so John leaves them to it.

He plays with Rosie and the bee Sherlock gave her for her christening. He tells her all the things he hid well in his heart and he asks her where ‘home’ is. She gurgles happily and stares back at him with Mary’s wide blue eyes, as if that’s the silliest question she has ever heard.

Maybe it is.

He gives them another thirty minutes, then he gathers Rosie in his arms and heads upstairs to change her nappy. The flat is silent, the Stradivarius is placed on the living room table between the Holmes brothers like a bridge ready to be crossed. Mycroft frowns at the sight of John and his daughter, but it is Sherlock’s gaze that he can feel lingering on his back all the way to the bathroom.

It’s good enough.

 

 

He updates his blog because that’s the right thing to do.

The redecoration process of 221B is slowly coming to an end and although John refuses to admit it, he dreads the day he will have to return to his life as Rosie’s responsible father living in the suburbs. After two weeks of blind avoidance, it’s about time to break their undisturbed bubble of peace and face the aftermath of the storm they miraculously managed to survive.

Sherlock leaves the flat every now and then, a black bag in hand, a distant look in his eyes, but John knows better than to ask where he’s going. It’s not that difficult of a leap, knowing the detective. He usually leaves with a hint of hesitation in his step, reluctant to leave his home - them - behind, but he always returns in an amiable mood and plays with Rosie while John cooks dinner or contemplates about deleting his blog.

It’s fine.

 

 

*

 

 

“You don’t have to.”

The first time they address the matter at hand, it’s already too late, and Sherlock stares over John’s left shoulder as he stands in the doorway of 221, Rosie sleepily blinking up at him from her baby carrier.

“No, but I need to.”

Sherlock gives an understanding nod and looks down at his goddaughter with an expression on his face John doesn’t know how to read.

“If you need anything…”

“I know.”

He doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want to remember the day he pushed Sherlock away with all his strength.

_Anyone but you._

This time, he pulls him close, pats his back like the friend he should have been.

_Only ever you._

The silence stretches between them into a poem of solace.

Until the cab arrives and John lifts Rosie in first.

“John”

Sherlock steps up to them, uncharacteristically nervous and fidgeting with the sleeve of his dressing gown like the innocent boy he once was.

_Sherlock Holmes, the pirate._

“If there’s anything, anything at all. Please don’t hesitate to call and let me know.”

His eyes wander to Rosie and John can’t help but wonder if this is as hard for Sherlock as it is for him. But there are ghosts lurking in the shadows of both of their homes and there’s only so long _together_ can last. They are fighting their own battles now, each of them separately.

 _Just the two of us against the rest of the world_ has turned into _Just me against the ghosts of my past._

“I will. Text me if there’s a case.”

A short nod, _I will_ , a closing cab door, a retreating lonely figure on the pavement.

Only when the cab pulls away, John remembers the toothbrush next to the basin and his heart clenches painfully in the same rhythm as his hand on the seat next to him. Sherlock might not have a tiny human being, but he’s still got his violin when loneliness comes to haunt the rooms they once shared.

Rosie is fast asleep, so he closes his eyes, leans his head against the cold window and tries to forget about what he's left behind.

It’s going to be okay.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s hard to resume the life they’d lived and nothing is okay.

The bed is bigger, emptier, the house more quiet, scarier. John makes breakfast in the morning and feeds Rosie one handed while chewing on a dry toast. He balances her on one arm while checking his emails, the blog or Sherlock’s texts.

It is what it is and what it is, is shit.

There’s no reason in denying that he misses the comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace, the sound of a violin, a third breathing pattern, Rosie’s laugh when Sherlock tickles her, the knowledge that there’s a reliable partner nearby, pale fingers brushing his over a teacup, only slightly too long for it to be casual.

He bins Mary's toiletries while he thinks of the utopia of two toothbrushes side by side.

This time, he’s truly alone and he doesn’t make another attempt at looking for Mary between the nightgowns in her dresser. He doesn’t pretend there’s someone sitting opposite him at their kitchen table and the loneliness regards him with a calculating gaze from its seat in the armchair by the fireplace.

“Just the two of us against the rest of the world, right?”

Rosie doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, but her bright smile is comforting enough to drown out the doubt.

And if he closes his eyes that night and falls asleep to the imagination of dark curls on the pillow next to him, there’s nobody there who could pity him for his desperation.

 

 

He dreams of a clock ticking backwards, a meeting at Bart’s and of a radiant smile directed his way, of amazement and adoration, of a “Fantastic!” and an “Amazing!” too much.

He dreams of a quiet dinner at Angelo’s, of touching hands and different questions, of walking home arm in arm.

He dreams of stolen kisses and hidden smiles, of a catch after the fall, of two years forever erased from his memory.

He dreams of a wedding without white dresses and photographers, but with different violin music and a larger hand in his.

In his dream, he sees Rosie in Sherlock’s arm, him pointing at John from the other side of the living room, _their_ living room, “Oh, look, there’s daddy”, a passionate kiss.

Solving cases, chasing shadows, falling endlessly.

He awakes to his cheeks glistening with tears, a wet pillow beneath his head, and a soundless cry upon his lips.

Every step further down this one-way street is torture.

 

 

If the first night was bad, the second one is hell.

He spends most of it in Rosie’s room, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to the faint noises she’s making in her sleep. The sharks above the changing table seem to circle in on him and his hands are only a poor substitute for the weapons’ safety he experiences in his dreams.

Maybe he should call Sherlock.

Maybe he should make an attempt at texting Eurus again. As sick as it sounds even in his own head, the midnight conversations had helped. It was nice talking to her, partly because she reminded him so much of her brother, in retrospect. It’s probably not a very good thing to text a psychopath in the middle of the night just to forget about the _What might have been._

He longs for something he doesn’t even know, wanders through the night without seeking, dead eyes following his every move. He fetches himself a glass of water and waits for the sunrise by the window in the nursery.

At half past four in the morning the tears have dried and it starts to rain.

Rosie doesn’t even stir when he takes down the mobile above the changing table.

 

 

*

 

 

The envelope doesn’t just arrive, it _happens_.

One minute he’s absent-mindedly playing with Rosie, the next he’s turning the DVD in his steady hands. It’s not as if he found himself face to face with a ghost. Except that it is.

“Are you sure you want me…”

“Please.”

John sounds more defeated than he likes to admit and when Sherlock remains standing while he takes a seat on the sofa, John can’t help but feel even more vulnerable.

They watch Mary talk and hear her speak and none of them moves or dares so much as to breathe.

_I know you two, and if I’m gone, I know what you could become, because I know who you really are._

It sounds like an unwritten poem; a piece of literature never read the way it was always meant to be, a book missing the last, fundamentally changing page that elevates the stroyline to an entire new level.

He senses Sherlock’s eyes on him like a physical touch, a cold rain pouring down, clearing the view, sharpening the contours. There is only one way to read this story, _their_ story.

It is what it is and what it is, is painful.

_Who you really are, it doesn’t matter._

It’s like a bullet in the Afghan desert, crossing the distance between its origin and aim far too fast and with deadly precision. A gunshot on the second floor of an office in the middle of a silvery night and a flatline on a heart monitor in an operation theatre. In the end, falling is just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination. And with every word, John hates her more because she knows the truth, has always known it, and even in death she turns it against him.

_It’s all about the legend._

_The stories, the adventures._

_There is a last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted._

_There is a final court of appeal for everyone._

For everyone except themselves.

 

 

The silence that follows the words of a dead woman is heavy and charged with expectation while they are both lost in their own worlds. It doesn’t feel right to question the belief of the deceased, even if it cuts like a knife.

Seconds stretch into minutes, fade into hours, but nothing changes.

Eventually, Sherlock is the first to break and he rounds the coffee table in silence. When he lowers himself to the sofa next to John, some of the tension seems to leave his body and give way to a new sense of freedom.

They don’t talk, they just sit.

At some point, Rosie throws a rattle their way and Sherlock makes a half-hearted attempt at entertaining her, but John remains motionless, paralysed by the truth thrust into his face by his dead wife.

A recurring dream, talked about for the first time ever.

The dawn has started to creep over the sky when he finally manages to pull himself together, to come to terms with the heart Mary poured out for him – in the middle of their living room.

“She’s right, you know?”

John’s voice breaks on the last word, is barely stronger than a whisper. Unshed tears are burning behind his eyelids.

All dead, lost, gone.

“Although it’s a matter of taste, she certainly valued your literary contributions more than I ever did.”

The deep baritone makes John very aware of the close proximity of their bodies, the reappearing bridges, the returning _What might have been_. It doesn’t help to keep the surfacing frustration at bay that wells in his stomach and his fingernails are cutting deep into the palms of his hands. Years of unfulfilled want, of regret, and grief, and love roughen his voice to a breathless rasp.

“I’m not talking about the legend or the adventures or the damn stories.”

Broken pieces everywhere.

“I’m talking about us, Sherlock.”

Emotional context.

_A little scratch of ordinariness for you to impress._

And the dam gives way to the flood.

 

 

*

 

 

John moves into the second room upstairs one week after they’ve watched Mary’s video message. Mrs Hudson, of course, is delighted to have him back, “to keep that madman sane”, and Sherlock greets him on the landing with an honest smile.

Mycroft takes care of the house and the few things John expressed a wish in keeping.

The first night back in Baker Street is quiet bliss.

The second night, the dreams start again.

The third night, they become livelier, more detailed, more explicit.

By the fourth night, he doesn’t even dare go to sleep, so he checks on Rosie and heads downstairs to the kitchen.

Sherlock is still awake, but he doesn’t ask any questions and just accepts the cup of tea John offers him as a ‘thank you’ for his discreetness.

They sit in the kitchen and they still don’t talk.

_Christ, John, stay, talk._

This time, the voice is in his head and not coming from a product of his imagination from the other side of the room.

It still doesn’t mean that he starts listening to it, now.

 

 

*

 

 

Two weeks after he had moved back into Baker Street, Rosie falls ill for the first time.

She wakes in the death of the night, crying, a high fever darkening her cheeks in an angry red and it’s Reichenbach all over again. There’s no time for being a professional doctor, for allowing enough reason not to feel for a pulse that clearly isn’t there – or in Rosie’s case, for keeping calm and examining her.  Blind panic grips John’s heart in an iron grip and he hurries to get them both dressed and to get to the nearest A&E. Later, he’ll tell himself that he doesn’t want her to link him with unpleasant memories and that being a dad means not to be a doctor when it can be avoided, but deep down, he knows that he is betraying himself.

John will forever remember how it felt to look into those big, watery blue eyes, seeing his daughter in such a state of distress, possibly pain, and not knowing what to do. The first thing on his mind is that he failed her because he should have taken better care of her, although he knows how impossible it is to influence his daughter’s health. For the second thought, and that is just as unreasonable and just as unfair, he blames Sherlock. The third thought which makes his heart beat faster is the gut wrenching fear of losing her.

He’s lost so much, over and over again.

He’s lost his trust in life, in living, and in being, not only because he’s always had trust issues, but because death has cheated on him more than enough times.

She’s the last happy sunray that remains, the last spark that somehow made it through the winds that doused all the other candles and he cannot afford to lose her as well. Otherwise, the darkness would kill him.

It’s the panic that gets him moving.

When he hurries down the stairs, a crying Rosie safely gathered in his arms, the last thing on John’s mind is being careful not to wake his flatmate. Sometimes, living with Sherlock Holmes has its advantages when it comes to respect for noise levels and undisturbed nights – they just don’t exist.

At least they didn’t in the past.

John is just about to grap his coat off the hook by the living room door when a curly head pokes out of the kitchen and an alarmed look crosses his face as soon as Sherlock takes in the crying baby and John’s panicked appearance. The faint dark shadows beneath the pale blue eyes are a clear indicator for another sleepless night spent with ridiculous experiments on their kitchen table.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to take her to hospital. She’s got a fever and I need to make sure she’ll be okay.”

A nod in agreement, a flurry of movements, then Sherlock is following them down the steps and through the door out into the streets.

“You don’t have to come,” is John’s weak protest when the detective manages to produce a cab out of thin air.

The answering stare silences all further attempts of protest.

“It’s fine.”

 

 

Rosie doesn’t stop crying on the way to the hospital, in the waiting area, during the examination, when the doctor hands a prescription to Sherlock without asking who the father is and she keeps crying all the way home to Baker Street.

Sherlock is awfully silent.

John doesn’t talk either, but his mind is screaming at him.

They wake Mrs Hudson upon their arrival and Sherlock takes Rosie without any explanation out of John’s arms while he assures Mrs Hudson that she’ll be fine once the medicine takes effect.

Back upstairs it takes John four minutes, the making of two cups of tea and half of Sherlock’s favourite violin piece to realise that the flat has gone pleasantly silent save for the calming music drifting through their rooms.

No crying whatsoever.

When he turns around and steps into the living room to place their tea on the coffee table, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight that greets him.

Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, Rosie is lying on her back on his legs with reddened wet cheeks and teary eyes while he keeps playing the familiar melody of unspoken promises, never once breaking eye contact with the little girl that stares up at him with such undisguised awe, wonder and unconditional trust. The expressiveness of her features  almost shocks John into speechlessness.

Something burns its way through his chest right to where his heart is beating unusually fast and hot tears threaten to spill over and making his cheeks glisten in the same way Rosie’s are, and suddenly, he doesn’t care anymore.  If Sherlock were to raise his gaze, he’d see all of Rosie’s love and adoration mirrored in John’s features and eyes, and there would be nothing he’d be able to do. It would all end there and then.

The guards are down.

But Sherlock doesn’t look up. Instead, he keeps his focus on Rosie and her increasing sleepiness and that’s perfectly fine because John doesn’t want things to end.

He tells himself that he doesn’t want to break the spell that Sherlock Holmes has cast on them both, him and now his daughter.

The truth is that he knows he couldn’t live with the inevitable rejection.

 

 

*

 

 

John can’t stand to look at the skull on the mantelpiece anymore.

Every time he catches himself glancing at it, he quickly turns his gaze away and tries to keep his thoughts from sinking to the bottom of a darkened well again.

It’s mocking him whenever Sherlock leaves the room, reminding him that their friendship has become even more fragile since that night at Musgrave Hall.

_If he were still alive, would it still be me who’d be sitting in this chair, praising Sherlock’s deductions, running after him through dubious alleys, saving his life over and over again and be saved in return?_

_If he were still alive, would we have met at all?_

These kind of questions are neither fair nor appropriate, but they keep creeping into his bed at night when his dreams become a little too pleasant, reminding him that the walls of Sherlock’s Mind Palace are not made of marble or gold, but deep water and rusty memories.

And every time he walks in on his best friend staring at the goddamn skull, he wonders if there’d been more to it than just friendship and the joined dream of conquering the world.

_Just the two of us against the rest of the world._

It’s soothing the wounds knowing that these words were directed at him and him alone.

It’s painful to think that it might not have been the first time Sherlock has said them.

 

 

*

 

 

Time goes by and nothing changes while the world moves on.

Rosie grows far too fast for John’s liking while his relationship to Sherlock doesn’t, but that’s the way things are.

He still gets nightmares, he still thinks of Mary every now and then, he still longs for his best friend in ways he shouldn’t, but it is what it is and what it is, is healing.

The detective business is prospering and John has abandoned his job at the clinic in favour of blogging and working on his first crime novel. They offered him a ridiculous sum for writing Sherlock’s biography, but he would never dare to assume that he knows the Consulting Detective well enough to tell his life story.

Sherlock had only rolled his eyes when John had handed him the letter with a smug smile. After all this time, his friend was still reluctant to accept his “hopelessly overdramatised” and “disgustingly romanticised” writing, not to mention “those horrendous titles”.

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock had said and thrown the letter right into the flames, “I’d never trust you to write an entire book about me. You’d probably fuel Janine’s ridiculous rumours about me, if you made any of your absurd theories about Irene or Molly public.”

The mentioning of Irene Adler is nothing new.

Whereas that of Molly Hooper is.

 

 

*

 

 

Four months after moving back to Baker Street, Rosie says her first word and a whole universe turns upside down.

It’s late on a Wednesday evening, Sherlock and John have just returned from a case – a tedious triple homicide in Hackney – when Mrs Hudson hands Rosie over to John but the small girl turns away from him in his arms, points at Sherlock and says “Papa”.

The syllables ring out clearly and unmistakingly in the air of the hallway and her gestures erase every doubt that the sounds have been anything but a lucky coincidence.

“Papa,” she repeats, her tone becoming more annoyed and whiny when she doesn’t immediately get what she so clearly wants and her impatient hands reach desperately for the black Belstaff coat. John’s incredulous gaze shifts from his daughter to the man in question as his mind is going abruptly blank. Maybe, he should be angry or disappointed that Rosie automatically connects Sherlock with being her father upon seeing him, but the warmth in his chest feels very much different from the cold, gut wrenching cold of jealousy.

It feels incredibly right.

There’s no question that the detective somehow manipulated her into acknowledging him as a father figure. And even though John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had practised talking with her, the expression of utter shock on his best friend’s features and the stillness of his posture are indicators enough that he didn’t expect Rosie to draw this connection either.

Next to him, Mrs Hudson stays thankfully silent, although there are tears in her eyes.

Not wanting to discourage his daughter from demonstrating her talking skills, John swallows against the tightness in his throat and nudges Sherlock friendly in the side.

“Well, Her Majesty has spoken.”

“John”

Sherlock sounds breathless and completely at a loss, the unnecessary apology almost visible on his lips.

“Papa,” Rosie insists again dangerously close to tears now and this time, John smiles fondly at her, then points at Sherlock.

“You want to go to Papa?”

An eager nod.

“There you go.” He hands her over to Sherlock who carefully takes her in his arms as if she were made of glass and John dries her unshed tears with his thumb.

It gets easier from there.

 

 

Two weeks after the hallway incident, Rosie calls John “Dada” for the first time and he beams at her so hard that his cheeks start to hurt.

“I told you there’s only one ‘A’, Rosie,” comes Sherlock’s seemingly bored, but unusually soft voice from the living room. John couldn’t care less.

They take her to Regent’s Park and feed some ducks, Sherlock walking close to John on their way home, almost constantly brushing his side while John focuses very hard on pushing the pram. Sherlock goes on and on about some cases Lestrade had him look into, most of them cold and barely more than a five, but John doesn’t really care and just listens to the dark baritone and the background noise of singing birds.

“It encourages her understanding of language,” explains Sherlock when they stop in front of 221B. “In my estimation she should start speaking in coherent sentences six and a half weeks ahead of the average child.”

“She’s not an experiment, Sherlock,” John reminds his best friend with a companionable wink and they carry a sleeping Rosie up the stairs to their flat.

“Of course not, John. She’s our daughter.”

It’s a good thing that Sherlock doesn’t turn around to direct his words to John, because then he probably would have seen the emotions flickering on John’s face. It’s a lucky coincidence that John manages not to stumble and he subconsciously tightens his hold on Rosie, burying his face in her short curls. Remembering that everything the words imply only exists in his head.

It was probably just a slip.

Nothing to it.

But that night, right before he falls asleep, he can’t help but wonder how often Sherlock must have thought of Rosie as _their’s_ for it to slip through his self-censorship so carelessly.

 

 

*

 

 

They don’t talk about it, but it’s there.

It’s in every word Sherlock says, carefully phrased sentences, “our daughter” fading to “Rosie”.

It’s in the distance between their chairs in front of the fireplace, the two pieces of furniture set further apart than ever.

It’s in the countless cups of tea, changing hands without any casual touches at all; barriers up, defences alert.

Sherlock doesn’t offer to put Rosie to bed anymore, he stops reading her stories, he doesn’t pick up his violin again to play her a lullaby.

It’s there and it hurts.

Maybe, John thinks, it wasn’t a slip.

Maybe it was Sherlock testing the waters and maybe John has failed.

The waters get deeper and deeper while Sherlock locks himself in his bedroom, leaving John to a crying Rosie, oblivious that the little girl is crying because she misses _him_. John pats her on the back, walks miles in their living room until he leaves a pattern on the carpet, he tries to feed her, rocks her in his arms, but she refuses to calm while her father stares with a thundering glare at the shut door at the end of the hallway.

It is what it is and what it is, is unfair.

“I know, love,” he whispers in her ear and shuts his eyes to prevent the burning from turning into a flood threatening to flow down his cheeks. He doesn’t know why he keeps clinging onto sinking ships, but he knows that he’s got to keep it together. For Rosie.

“I know how you feel. But I promise that you’ll always have me.”

Eventually, they both fall asleep on the sofa from exhaustion.

 

 

John wakes to an empty flat and a hurriedly scribbled note on the coffee table.

_New case, will be out all day, breakfast is in the fridge. –S_

He gently gathers Rosie in his arms, busies himself with heating what must be a poor version of scrambled eggs. While he feeds Rosie with one hand, he sends a text in hopes of resolving the tension which has been constantly building for the last days and weeks.

_Be careful._

And then, just to be sure, _We need to talk tonight._

There’s no reply within the next minutes, so he assumes that Sherlock is already preoccupied with another adventure and sets his phone aside. The first cases the Consulting Detective had solved on his own had been a hard pill to swallow for John. He was used to Mary taking care of Rosie and it was only after her death that he’d realised how presumptious his behaviour had been. Now he knows how she must have felt when he and Sherlock dashed out the door to save the world once again, always remaining in the back, always staying behind.

Back then, he’d known why he never had any remorses after leaving her. After all, it had been her fault that this life packed with adrenaline and danger had almost never made it back to him if it hadn’t been for Sherlock’s will to live.

Back then, he’d been running with his best friend.

Now it’s Sherlock who is running from him.

 

 

Morning shifts into noon, noon fades into afternoon, and afternoon quickly turns into evening. When the darkness of the night creeps over the roofs, John puts Rosie to bed and heads back down to check the windows again.

He hasn’t heard from Sherlock all day.

Not once.

He knows it’s too early to worry, but he can’t help but wonder where his best friend might be.

Has he really been naïve enough to presume that Sherlock would behave more responsible now that they had a child to take care of?

_Of course not, John. She’s our daughter._

The call came at five past twelve and it was Appledore all over again, watching jars of glowing miracles shatter into thousands of pieces.

They had never been his in the first place.

But now, it wasn't about a vow or a promise or a _'til death do us part_.

Now, it was about something far more fragile, more far-reaching than just them. He'd lost a piece of Sherlock with the shot that killed Magnussen, something he'll never get back and he knows that they will make it through the night, but he doesn't know who they'll be by sunrise.

“Am I speaking to Dr. Watson? This is Hannah Lester from St Thomas’ Hospital. Mr. Holmes was admitted to A&E two hours ago and he just came out of surgery. Here, it says that you’re to be contacted in case of an emergency.”

She says she can’t tell him over the phone what happened due to confidentiality issues and he doesn’t question her authority, so he rushes upstairs and puts Rosie in the first sleeping bag he can find. His heart is racing and his head is swimming, but somehow, he manages to hail a cab and get them both to the hospital.

Of course, Mycroft is there with his disapproving staring and his tapping umbrella. A faint smile creeps onto his features as he meets Rosie’s curious widened eyes, but the echoes of old memories cloud his knowing eyes.

“He’ll pull through,” the politician informs them in answer to the most important question that must be written all over John’s face, “but they were close to…”

Mycroft never finishes his sentence, the implication hanging in the air like a flashing advertisement at Piccadilly, _but they were close to giving up on him._

“I feared something like this might happen.” Mycrofts words are lost in Rosie’s wail and her distress is becoming worse with every minute. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, the sense of what happened the last time when they were standing in a hospital alley, Mary’s body behind the door to John’s right. Maybe she knows that something bad has happened today.

Maybe she’s just tired.

John envies her for her limited capcity in understanding feelings as wrecking as _guilt_ and _hurt_ and _betrayal._

She can’t hear the silent screaming of the minds surrounding her.

 

 

When John steps into Sherlock’s room, he’s glad that he’s had the foresight to leave Rosie in Mycroft’s care. He would never want her to see the man she refers to as “Papa” lying in a hospital bed, his skin as pale as the sheets beneath him, tubes and cannulas connected to his still body.

“Stabbed in the chest,” Mycroft had said. “He had no chance of defending himself. A neighbour found him and called the ambulance. They said he was still conscious when they arrived.”

His heart is clenching as he steps up to the machines displaying Sherlock’s vital functions, turning his steady heartbeat into a monotonous beeping.

John has lost count of the times he’s seen his best friend like this over the past year, and he hates Sherlock for it. Ever since the detective’s return from his short exile, his behaviour has become more and more reckless, almost suicidal. Sometimes, John wonders if Sherlock has already come to terms with the belief that his life is going to end soon. They never talked about Reichenbach or Serbia or Magnussen, they even avoided Mary and Culverton-Smith. And as John takes the fragile white hand in his, intuitively feeling for a pulse, he realises that he never apologised for what he did to his best friend in a morgue on a Friday night. They never acknowledged how much the doctor has hurt Sherlock, how many wounds he left on the defenceless body – healed and unhealed alike.

John has never told him that it wasn’t Mary’s death or his grief that turned him into an irrational and unforgiving cruel mess.

He doesn’t understand why Sherlock never brought it up again, forgave him, despite the lack of explanation or apology, and it causes the self-loathing to come crashing in like a tidal wave. Compared to how John treated him after the Consulting Detective returned from the dead, the amount of fighting they put up with in order to save their friendship has gotten completely out of balance. How anyone can still think of Sherlock as a sociopath at this point is beyond John, because what would that make of him, then?

“I didn’t hurt you for what I lost,” he whispers into the night as it’s easier to talk about the unspoken in the cover of darkness, “but for losing the one I could have had.”

Mary had known how he felt about Sherlock.

She’d always known.

John is convinced that if he’d kept his feelings to himself on the first night they went out together, she would never have had pulled the trigger years later. There had never been a day when he didn’t wonder if he’d made the wrong choice in marrying her, but when she became pregnant, all doubts faded into muted acceptance. He never dared to question his motives for staying with Mary because there was no alternative. Sherlock didn’t want the same things he did, so he settled for the second best – an unfair decision towards the woman he once loved and the child he now had to bring up alone.

If given the choice, he’d always choose Sherlock and what he realised that Friday night in the morgue was that Sherlock had taken this choice away from him. In saving the detective’s life, Mary had conferred a value on it that surpassed her own, accepting the fact that in John’s heart, Sherlock would always come first. She had forced John to give up the second best and live for the rest of his life in the looming presence of what he so desperately wanted, but never would be allowed to have.

Surrender and vengeance combined in one.

John was convinced that his best friend had seen through it because it was the only explanation for Sherlock’s obvious death wish. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be here right now.

Surely, there must be something worth living for – even in Sherlock’s world.

 

 

*

 

 

The pale eyes flicker open twelve hours later and Rosie clumsily pats him on the nose while making a cooing noise that sounds like the vocal equilibrium of the joy and relief flooding John’s heart. Sherlock smiles at the toddler who impatiently wriggles on her father’s lap and a pale hand hesitantly stretches out to pet her foot.

None of them dares to break the silence, but when their eyes lock over a small head of blonde curls, it’s all there in the distance between them.

_I was worried, you idiot._

_I know, I’m sorry._

_You should be for giving us such a fright._

_John…_

“This is the last time you went on a case alone,” says the army doctor when the blue-grey eyes are turning liquid with regret and the fear of falling.

“It was never my intention to…” Sherlock’s hoarse voice breaks at the last word with sincerity and John shakes his head.

“I don’t care about your intention, Sherlock. The facts are that you almost died, _again_ , and I need you to understand that it’s no longer your decision to make whether to leave us or not.”

Anger boils behind the quicksilver irises and Rosie buries her face in John’s jumper.

“It’s my life and it ends whenever I want it to end. And neither you, nor Mycroft or anyone else get a say in it. You’ve given up that right long ago, so keep your hands off it.”

This is not how he imagined this morning, this conversation, to turn out.

This should be a declaration, not a shouting match.

John stands on wobbly knees because he has to get Rosie out. She's started crying and her need to escape the situation seems to be just as strong as John’s.

“No, Sherlock, you’ve said it yourself. _Our_ daughter, _our_ obligation. She needs you and she needs you to be _alive_ and _there_. I know that you don’t care about me or your parents or Mycroft, hell, even Mrs Hudson. But to Rosie, you are half of her world, at least. She needs you.”

 _Just as much as I need you_ goes unsaid, unspoken, undiscussed.

The voice is cool and distanced when Sherlock speaks again, all of his thoughts and emotions in check, and John hates it.

“I’m her godfather, nothing more.”

It is what it is and what it is, is just too much to bear.

John leaves.

 

 

*

 

 

They stay at Baker Street partly because they have nowhere else to go, partly because he is tired of running.

Sherlock returns after another three days in hospital but their lives remain carefully separated in quiet coexistence. The only bridge is Rosie, crawling between their two chairs in front of the fireplace back and forth whenever she seeks the attention of one of them.

For the first week, she desperately clings to Sherlock’s side as if he might disappear at any moment and it breaks John’s heart to witness the misplaced trust with the knowledge that it will shatter, eventually. Much to his surprise, the heartbreak never comes. Instead, Sherlock starts playing her songs on his violin again, patiently feeds her when she bats John’s hands away, and even reads her the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ before John puts her to bed.

It would have been endearing if it wasn’t so painful.

Even though, Rosie might be oblivious to Sherlock’s motivation, John is able to read the apology in every heated bottle of baby formula and in every changed nappy. And the worst part is that he knows how short-lived Sherlock’s care for Rosie will be. It’d be only a matter of time until the next promising case turns up and the little girl would be forgotten.

It helps John to remember that they’re never going to be a family, no matter how right it feels to walk into the flat after a quick trip to Tesco and to find Rosie dozing on a sleeping Sherlock’s stomach.

_This is family._

_That’s_ why _he stays._

It doesn’t help to conceal his feelings in his heart.

 

 

*

 

 

The first case after the hospital incident is difficult, but they make it through it, together, all three of them.

“I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for her,” says Sherlock when they climb into the back of a cab after explaining the murder to Greg and the forensic team.

“I know,” says John and turns towards London passing behind the rain-sprinkled windows to hide the hurt in his eyes.

He has no right to expect anything more.

_You’ve given up that right long ago, so keep your hands off it._

 The first time they forget about the tension is at Angelo’s after solving a triple homicide in Notting Hill and it’s like they fall back into the easiness of their first night together all these years before.

Until Sherlock tears it all apart.

“I’m trying. For her, I mean.” He carefully avoids John’s eyes and takes an intense interest in his lasagna. “Maybe you should do the same.”

John swallows around the sudden knot in his throat and his voice sounds more hoarse than before.

“What do you mean?”

The candle between them flickers.

“You should go out again, see someone. Someone that isn’t me, that is. I can see the loneliness in your eyes and it makes you unhappy.”

It takes him all the self-control he’s got not to laugh at how completely wrong that deduction is.

“I’m not going to date anyone, Sherlock. Not anymore.”

None of them mentions that John never declined his unhappiness.

 

 

The first time it feels like the old days again is on a Wednesday night when they sit on the sofa and watch the latest James Bond. They might have had one or two glasses too much wine and the distance between them is three to four inches closer than it’s used to be.

The feelings are familiar, but the situation is altogether new.

“Isn’t it strange for you, watching this?” The words stumble over Sherlock’s lips, clumsy from the Whiskey.

“What do you mean?”

The detective grimaces and points gracelessly at the screen as if John didn’t know what he’s talking about. “Doesn’t it remind you of Mary with all of that agent-spying-things?”

Under different circumstances, the comparison  wouldn’t have been nearly as funny as it is with their blood singing with adrenaline and alcohol, but John can’t help but giggle at the mental image.

“Can you imagine Daniel Craig with boobs?”

Sherlock frowns at him.

“Who’s that?”

John only rolls his eyes.

“The guy playing Bond.”

The full lips curve into a smile and the dark ruble of the baritone echoes through the flat.

“Not my area.”

There’s no need for specifying whether Sherlock’s comment refers to the knowledge of British actors or his taste in terms of sexual orientation and that’s all fine.

“Reminds me of you, y’know,” the velvet voice mutters only barely audible and John almost chokes on the Whiskey in his hand. Surely, Sherlock must know that he just complimented his best friend in a way that crosses so many lines without changing anything.

“Good way or bad?”

The head with the mahogany curls turns towards him and suddenly, John realises how close they really are. The words hang between them like a lifeline, the decision in Sherlock’s hands.

Take it or drop it.

Their gazes linger for what feels like eternities and for the first time, there’s a feeling of infinity, endless possibilities fanning out on the sofa cushions, each and every one of them just slightly out of reach.

The liquid silver eyes search his for something, anything, and whatever it is, they seem to find it. John can pinpoint the second Sherlock makes a decision and everything blurs to nothingness.

Lips touch, inches turn into millimetres, hands brush, grab, hold on as if their lives depended on it.

John’s world implodes as Sherlock draws back far too soon, a blush creeping up his cheeks and neck, and whatever it is, it’s not nearly enough.

That night, James Bond is forgotten over whispered love songs and stolen kisses between white sheets.

 

 

*

 

 

John wakes in an unfamiliar bed with a wide awake detective next to him and the first thing that happens is a lopsided grin.

With the thumb of his right hand, he attempts to smooth Sherlock’s furrowed forehead and watches as something akin to fear turns into undisguised adoration in the ice-blue eyes.

“So, this is okay?”

Sherlock takes his hand loosely enough to allow John to draw back if he so wishes.

“More than okay,” he answers with all honesty that he can muster and stretches his neck to seal their lips in a kiss that hopefully erases all doubts from Sherlock’s mind.

They have breakfast in the kitchen and afterwards, they talk.

It takes John two hours to tell Sherlock, how he never grieved a friend, but a dead lover, how he begged him in the shelter of his thoughts to return from where John could not find him, not to punch him in the face, but to take said face in his hands and kiss him over and over again until they were one. He tells Sherlock about how wrong it had been to settle for the second best and doing such injustice to the woman who loved him the most. He carefully avoids the watery blue stare as he tells Sherlock that he has always known what falling felt like, but he never dared to dream that one day, he might get the chance to experience the feeling of flying as well.

“It took me less than 24 hours to fall for you, but more than six years to handle the aftermath of the impact. I realise that this changes things and that it might not be enough, because after all, I’m just a scratch of ordinariness for you to impress, but Sherlock,” he raises his gaze and looks right into two oceans of love and almost-tragedy, “I always needed you more as a friend than as a stranger in my life. So, if there’s one thing I get to ask of you, then please let it be this: Don’t leave me.”

Oceans spill onto their living room floor and currents sweep the debris away, leaving them bare, like soldiers, the last men standing on a deserted battlefield, the last to survive.

“I’m not leaving, not ever again, John. You are a scratch of ordinariness on my lens for me to impress and that might not help me see the world as clearly as I could, but it opens my eyes to things I never dreamed of seeing before I knew you.”

It started with one simple question and gets answered with a kiss filled with devotion and promises, two restless souls coming home.

Two broken hearts, just starting to heal.

It is what it is and what it is, is finally right.

Upstairs, Rosie doesn’t even stir.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for staying until the end. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, don't be shy and please let me know.  
> x


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